


Why Should The Fire Die?

by myriddin



Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: F/M, Next Generation, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:27:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myriddin/pseuds/myriddin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The king of Narnia comes of age, and the repercussions rock both worlds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. His Father's Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Susan's son prepares for his coronation, but self-doubt and his parents' absence haunt him.

Winter had come to Cair Paravel, obscuring the world outside the castle walls beneath an iridescent, ghostly white. Through the crystal panes of the windows letting teasing beams of amber sunlight fall into his bedchamber, he could see the lands beneath him, watch the glass cloud from the cold and trace his fingers along the cold surface, idly drawing random patterns typical of his boyhood.

The cold metallic of the coronation crown lay heavy upon his head, the polished gold glinting in the sunlight; the fur-lined velvet of his cloak was constricting, fastened as if a burdensome weight across his chest and shoulder…the brilliant royal blue of the fabric was daunting as the golden lion emblazoned upon in his chest, stitched so delicately into the sapphire hues of his tunic. The reflection he sought clouded over by the gathered condensation, his eyes closed to half-mast shapes as his body moved slowly, fluidly, turning around to face the body-length looking glass attached to the opposite wall.

His eyes widened to take in full view, the figure reflected in the mirror giving him the impression of a boy playing at being a man…a royal brat playing a fantasy part, a pretender king. He saw an aristocratic face, strongly featured and handsome enough to catch the eyes of the female sex. He could see the mirror image the Narnian people whispered of, the visage he wished could mirror anyone but _him._

Upon his crown of richly dark hair, he could still feel the ghostly feather-weight of the silver coronet denoting a princely status, upon his body the presence of crimson tunics and finely hemmed breeches, simple in style and stitched in golden patterns of maple leaves and thorn-lined vines, his personal insignia. Upon his skin, he could still feel the ghost of who he used to be.

Long fingers, calloused from years of sword-use, brushed against the definitions of his cheekbones, tracing down the lines of his jaw that bore the glossy, fine hairs of his thinly trimmed beard, grown in some strange, inexplicable desire to fit more into the role left behind by the man he called his father.

Him, the king they still spoke of in grand, mind-sweeping tales, not the gossip they whispered of in hushed, simpering tones but awe-struck, loving voices that spoke of the magnificence and benevolence of Narnia's first and last High King.

_Peter the Magnificent…_

The grand, golden figure in his dreams, remembered by strong hands and rich, deep laughter, the ethereal sire that laid in his mind a strange cross between reality and imagination, dimly remembered, equally adored and resented. A father he knew had loved him, a king who left a legacy far too large for his son to fulfill.

_Susan the Gentle…_

His beautiful, graceful mother, as strong and stubborn as she was gentle and loving…that much he remembered, alongside soft embraces and cooed lullabies. Slender fingers, male and female, entwining as their wedding bands glowed in the sunlight, affectionate kisses exchanged on warm summer days as the small family picnicked in a sweet-smelling meadow.

His mother beneath the shade of a willow as she cradled his toddler sister, the straining muscles and warm, coarse equine body beneath his buttocks as his father held him securely on the back of his powerful war steed, galloping around in strutting circles as he yelled with delight, clinging excitedly to the strong arms around his waist. He sighed, so softly he barely exhaled, eyes hooding to gaze blankly at the mirror, irises darkened to a sapphire blue with the heavy emotion running rampant through his mind.

William the Gallant…how could he ever live up to that kind of title?

A quiet knock reverberated against the oaken surface of the door, and William gave the ascent to enter his chambers. Through the reflective glass of the mirror, he spotted the silhouette of a slender man five years his junior, exotically-featured with swarthy, nut-brown skin, almond-shaped dark eyes and sable hair with a tendency to curl around his ears and the nape of his neck. A silver coronet donned his head, his sinewy figure outfitted in crimson colors that befitted his rank. William found himself wistfully longing once more for the simpler status his cousin bore.

Phillip the Artful the people called him in admiring, conspiring whispers, though such official titles were normally saved for the monarchs. A clever and witty young man, Phillip exuded a natural sort of disarming charm and charisma that often had people forgetting his age, position or even his colorful heritage.

Born of a tryst between Edmund and a dancing girl come with an entertaining band from Calormen, Phillip bore the same exotic qualities and striking features inherited from his mother that had once held the infatuation of the Just King. Affection between the two unlikely lovers had been genuine, and Edmund had planned to defy all decorum and expectations by taking the girl, Tristana, as his wife, but before his proposal could be made, her life was lost in childbirth.

As fate would have it, Phillip had never known either parent.

With a light of mischief in his smile and a look of speculation in his eyes, Phillip circled his cousin once, twice, seemingly appraising the elder royal. He quirked a fine dark brow in a manner that spoke of his own strange brand of humor. "Well, you certainly look the part. You might as well have stepped out of one of those paintings hanging in the Great Hall."

William stiffened, composure shaken by the outspoken reminder of everything disconcerting racing through his mind, and silently fuming, he fixed Phillip with an unwavering, disapproving look. "Why would you even say something like that?" he said softly, grating out every word, punctuated with resentment.

Phillip felt the bite of his cousin's tone, and through the mirror, their eyes met as the younger man held up his hands in a gesture meant to display innocence. "My apologies, majesty. I forget how you despise the subject of your own family."

Gritting his teeth, William chose a long moment of contemplation rather than an outraged retort. "It's not that the subject matter is as despicable as it is…discomforting."

Phillip sighed, walking forward to lightly rest his hands against William's shoulders. William being the elder and several inches taller, it was an uncomfortable action, but a solid reassurance nonetheless to the young king. "You've been the crown prince since birth, Will. You knew this day was coming. Can you never allow yourself to step outside your own father's shadow?"

"Step outside it, Phillip? I am his shadow." Raising tired eyes to the mirror once more, William took in the sight of the tall, broadly built man, raven-haired and bearded. Dark as shadow. Peter's son. Peter's shadowed mirror image.

"Why…why can't they see me, Phillip? Why do they just see him?"

"Will…"

For a long moment, William said nothing, his eyes closed and his face creased with an exhaustion of a man decades his senior. Finally, in defeated resignation, eyes fluttered open once more, sapphire blue meeting onyx black as he met his cousin's gaze, and then he sighed.

"William the Gallant…King of Narnia…" he whispered, as they heard a loud rapping at the door, Phillip's hands tightening reassuringly at his shoulders.

It was time.


	2. Rise and Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Narnia, the time for William's coronation is here. In our world, Peter and Susan have an unexpected encounter.

_Narnia_

The procession was an impressive one, the heirs of Adam and Eve side-by-side as they rode through the throngs of people there to coronate one of their own as the Narnia's highest protector and liege lord, answerable only to the great Aslan himself.

Leading the way was William of Narnia, proud and strong as the powerful black charger he rode, and beside him on a graceful chestnut was his sister, Elizabeth. Younger by two years, Elizabeth the Fair they called her, aptly named that day in the flowing royal blue gown she wore, her long golden hair tumbling freely around her shoulders and catching glints of sunlight as they made their way through the crowds.

Though she obligingly waved and smiled of her people, knowing sapphire eyes continued to stray to the man riding beside her, one of the few able to see through the mask of confidence and power he wore that day.

_He had taken a familiar perch on the battlements above Cair Paravel, staring out into the night. It was there she found him that evening, slipping up beside him in silence. He slid an arm around her shoulders and she pressed close, both for mutual comfort and warmth._

_She looked up at him with an odd sort of understanding in her eyes. "What is it that so darkens your heart and mind, brother, that you sit here for hours without word or sound, staring into nothing?"_

_He gave her an askance glance, rearranging his cloak to shelter them both from the wind whipping across the ramparts. "Be well, sister. It is not for tender ears to know what darkens my mood."_

_She shook her head with exasperated affection before softly sighing. "Stubborn you are, William, as men so often seem. Who am I as sister and confidante if you can dismiss me so easily?"_

_He smiled weakly as he pressed a tender kiss to her brow, "What you are, is my light against the darkness. A pure, bright star to guide me back. Dear Elizabeth, I thought you knew that by now."_

_Though his words struck a chord inside her as the sadness of them was undeniable, the sentiment touched her still, and she could do nothing but rest her head against his shoulder, not another word shared as they listened to the sound of the waves crashing against the shore._

That night had nearly a year ago. Little, it seemed, had changed in her brother. If anything, his burden seemed that much greater.

xx

_England, 1947_

Susan Pevensie was not quite certain what she had been expecting to find when she entered her parents' home that afternoon. She was there on request of her mother to check on things from time to time while her parents were gone on holiday. With Edmund and Lucy away at school, the house should have been empty, so when Susan closed the door behind her only to be met with the soft crooning of music, it was anything but expected.

The curtains were drawn, lights out as she crept down the hall, following the source of the sound as it grew louder the closer she drew to her father's study. Turning the corner and creaking the door open, she saw there was only a single light lit, a small lamp sitting on the edge of Daniel Pevensie's heavy oak desk, behind which was Peter.

Though she knew she shouldn't, she slowly let her eyes trail over him. He was lounging in the leather wingback, turned sideways so his legs and neck hung over the sides of the chair. His look was haphazard, jacket and tie thrown carelessly to the floor nearby, sleeves rolled up and suspenders down, blonde hair carelessly tousled. His head was tipped back, eyes closed, as he puffed lazily on a cigar he'd likely snatched from their father's collection.

Her throat tightened. The last she had heard of him was his plans to take a leave of absence from university to do some kind of work for Professor Kirke. That had been months ago, the news originating from a call with their mother, for it had been over a year since she had seen Peter face-to-face. They'd both grown tired of the fights, the distance, and their last blowout had been a bad one. A maturing Peter whose face and body were taking on the shape and form of the man she once called husband, it was more than she could take. He couldn't be her golden king any longer, even as she watched him grow more bitter and jaded with each rejection.

"Peter," she said quietly, able to do little more than whisper while swallowing back the thicker emotions.

Somehow, he still managed to hear her even over the low sounds of the radio in the corner. His eyes lazily fluttered open, his lips upturned into a mix between a smirk and a half-cocked smile. "Su," was all he said in way of greeting.

She swallowed, looking away for a moment before focusing back on him, her brow furrowing as she saw the glass in his hand, the slack expression on his face. "Peter, are you drunk?"

Peter stood, swaying slightly as he settled on his feet. He took one last draw from his cigar, putting it out on the edge of the desk. His blue eyes were clouded with intoxication, hazy both in the dark and with the alcohol. "Mmm. Maybe."

She shifted, looking away uncomfortably. "I'll leave you to it then."

"Wait," he reached out, catching her wrist. "Su. Don't go."

She turned back to him with a cautious, inquisitive look, and sighed. "What are you doing here, Peter?"

"I was in the area," His voice, as he spoke, was gruff, rough with emotions she couldn't quite bring herself to understand. He shrugged with an air of forced nonchalance, picking up glass and liquor from the desk to pour himself another. The amber liquid was translucent in the pallid glow, the clink of the ice against the glass a sign for him to arrange a refill. The crystalloid twang of the sifter hitting the table echoed slightly as he set it down, tossing back the drink. It was a familiar feeling, going down smooth but burning, a comforting fire in his belly. He sighed, turning his head back to her. "You?"

"Mum asked me to check on things. You were the last thing I expected to find."

"What is it, then? A pleasant surprise or an unpleasant one?"

Susan shrugged, wrapping her arms around herself in a defensive gesture he had seen from her too many times. "Su?"

"Don't go there, Peter. Please."

His face blanked. "You sound almost frightened, Susan," He softened, reaching out to lightly grasp her elbows.

She shook her head, with a short, humorless laugh. "I was startled, Peter. That's the extent of it."

Her eyes were moist as he felt her quiver, and he edged closer, "And yet you tremble, looking any moment like you might weep. Have I ever given you reason to fear me, beloved?"

His body felt heavy, languid, and a hazy feeling clouded his perception. Still, he knew better, that he shouldn't, when he reached up with shaky fingers to touch her cheek. Her skin was soft, silken to the touch, and the way she turned her face into his hand set his blood ablaze and made his heart shudder in ways it never should. He knew better, but that didn't stop him from leaning down to press his lips to hers.

The endearment, the way he spoke, it was all so painfully familiar it was all she could do not to throw herself into his arms and beg him to never let her go. And when his mouth covered hers, coaxing her to respond, she could only surrender to his touch.

xx

Coming to steps of Cair Paravel, they were met by the members of the regency council who had ruled Narnia in their stead for nearly fifteen years. Among them were the centaur Oreius, the faun Tumnus, and their beloved uncle, the Grand Duke Aldric. A noble, who had been husband and consort to Queen Lucy the Valiant, and in her and her siblings' absence, had been the man who raised the royal children as his own.

After helping her off her mare, William offered his sister his arm. She gave him a courteous smile, eyes locking with his for a pregnant moment as something silent passed between them.

_Are you certain you can do this?_

_Do I have a choice?_

Elizabeth tucked her hand against his elbow, and together, they began ascending the castle steps.

xx

His kisses were a little clumsy, reflective of his intoxicated state, but made her shiver with want nonetheless. His mouth was hot, and she was met with the taste of liquor as his tongue twined with hers.

Peter's hands grasped hard at her hips, jerking her closer as he rucked up the skirt to her dress, calloused hands wrapping around stocking-covered thighs. There was heat pooling in her belly, passion ascending inside her with incredible speed. She could feel him straining against his trousers and she arched into him, wanting more. More of his touch, more of his kiss, more of him.

He lifted her to him, her legs wrapping around his waist, and he stumbled toward the chair, landing hard with a writhing Susan snug in his lap.

xx

William's stomach knotted, his vision swimming from where he sat upon the throne. The crown hovered above his head where Aldric held it aloft, the golden circlet standing out blatantly against his raven hair as the trumpets sounded and courtiers made their announcements.

"All hail, William the Gallant! King of Narnia, Emperor of the Lone Islands, and Lord of Cair Paravel. Long live the king!"

The people roared, William closed his eyes, and Aldric lowered the crown.

_Long live the king._

xx

Susan arched into the strong hands placed at the small of her back as she crested with a sharp cry, soon followed by a growl of her name as Peter thrust up against her one last time. She sank back against him, shivering in the aftermath, naked and damp with sweat, and he enveloped her in his arms, allowing her to curl up against him. He smelled of tobacco, scotch and cologne, and she turned her nose away, longing instead for the scent of sweat, leather and the salt of the sea.

She brushed her hand against the heated skin exposed by his open shirt, a lump rising in her throat as she found smooth, golden skin absent the battle scars her memory knew so well. She shook her head, burying her face in his chest and he slowly ran his fingers through her hair. She listened to the rampant sound of his thundering heart, gradually calming down, and the way his heavy breathing began to slow. His arms grew slack around her and it was easy to slip out of them, ignoring the way her fingers trembled as she stepped back into her dress, combing down her tangled hair.

Grabbing her discarded purse, she paused over his unconscious figure, pressing a kiss to his sweaty brow. "Dear heart," she breathed, "My king, forgive my wrongs against you. For they must continue."

There was as little redemption to be found in silence as in angry words, she mused as she took her leave, leaving him to his drunken sleep.

The more things changed, the more things stayed the same.


End file.
